


The Jingle Jangle Morning

by audreycritter



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne is a Good Dad, Field Trip, Gen, New York New York, Platonic affection and fond nicknames, TW: Panic Attacks, father-son bonding, ill-advised but possibly understandable breaking of the posted speed limit, mentions of canonical parental loss, posh private school does posh things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 13:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19792300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/audreycritter/pseuds/audreycritter
Summary: Dick’s first overnight field trip without Bruce doesn’t go as well as planned.





	The Jingle Jangle Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Rating is for some language.

“Stop worryin’, B, I’ll be fine!”

Dick Grayson, at eleven, had all the confidence of a kid twice his age and the skill to match. That didn’t make Bruce feel any better, regarding him with his hands on his hips while Dick sat on his stuffed duffel. His toothy grin was a sunbeam of reassurance and Bruce could tell he was less than two seconds away from springing up into a handstand or a cartwheel.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come.”

“Brucester,” Dick said, rolling into a backward somersault off the bag. He popped to his feet with a flourish of his hand. “We’ve had this talk. I’m gonna be _fine_ , finer than fine, fine as peach pie on a summer evenin’.”

 _You need to spend less time with Clark_ , Bruce thought. Aloud, he said, “I think it would be better if I came with you. The school will adjust.”

“B,” Dick whined. Any other child might have slumped to the ground. Dick was not other children— he went up. He clambered up Bruce and swung around to sit on his shoulders, and hang forward over Bruce’s head to peer upside down into his face. It was a not-unpleasant weight. “B, look at me.”

“I am looking directly at you,” Bruce said, biting back his sigh. Dick’s hair flopped down, the curls tangled and obstructing his field of vision. “I am looking at nothing but you.”

“Nobody else’s parents—”

Dick faltered here, with a funny little twist of his expression that creased around his eyes. Bruce’s heart twisted in an echoing, aching way. He sat up, crossed his arms on Bruce’s head, and rested his chin there.

“Nobody else’s grownups are coming. The school’s got chaperones. You did your own security checks on ‘em, even.”

“Why would I do that,” Bruce said.

“I dunno, maybe because I’m the best thing that ever happened to you and you’re weird about it,” Dick said confidently, with a smirk Bruce could hear.

 _If only you knew_ , Bruce thought, but he kept his mouth shut.

“I saw your files,” Dick added. “I recognized the names. You gotta stop bein’ sloppy and leavin’ stuff out on the desk downstairs when there are little eyes around, y’know. Bein’ tired isn’t an excuse.”

“Don’t quote me at me,” Bruce said.

“I thought I was quoting Alfred,” Dick said cheekily. He tumbled forward without warning so Bruce had to catch him, and Dick wiggled until Bruce obliged and cradled him like an overgrown infant. Dick grinned up at him and patted his cheek. “Relax, big guy. You gotta do Batman stuff without me sometimes, and sometimes I gotta do Dick stuff without you. It’s part of _growin’_. It’s good for me.”

“Who exactly is in charge here,” Bruce grumbled, throwing Dick over his shoulder. There was a shrieky giggle when he took off toward the kitchen. “I’m starting to suspect it isn’t me.”

“You _are_ a detective,” Dick said. “I knew you’d catch on, partner. So. You’re not coming, right? Not even a teeny bit?”

“What the hell is a teeny bit,” Bruce asked, ducking into the kitchen. He pulled the fridge open and snagged the milk with two fingers and grabbed the chocolate syrup with the crook of his thumb.

Dick struggled to undrape himself, where he was hanging down Bruce’s back, and did some backbend that pulled him upright so he was more or less standing in Bruce’s hold. Bruce set him on the counter and Dick immediately began kicking his heels against the cabinet doors.

“A teeny bit is you coming to New York by yourself and getting another hotel room and pretending you had a meeting,” Dick said, with a warning frown. “That’s stalkin’ and it isn’t polite unless there’s _reasonable threat_.”

“I was not planning on it,” Bruce said, and it wasn’t a lie— but it was almost, because he had laid in bed awake that morning a little after four and planned it, and then talked himself out of it, after imagining the comment Alfred would make when he told him where he was off to.

Bruce put a single glass on the counter.

“You aren’t having any?” Dick asked, one eyebrow twitched upward in a quizzical expression. “Are you sick, B? I don’t have to go if you’re sick, we can go to New York some other time, it’s okay.”

Dick got up on his knees on the counter and put his little hand on Bruce’s forehead.

“This one is for me,” Bruce said calmly. He squeezed syrup into the glass while Dick’s palm rested on his head and then jerked away.

“What! No, I’m gonna have some, too. Now you’re just being a _jerk_ ,” Dick pouted. He sat back with a dark scowl and his arms crossed. “I get that you aren’t happy about this and I’m gonna miss you, too, but you don’t have to start denyin’ me _humane care_ , this is cruel and unusual punishment, B, is what it is, you coulda waited until after I left if—”

While his mouth was wide open, while he complained, Bruce squirted chocolate syrup straight in. Dick’s eyes widened and he cut himself off, and then pressed his lips together.

“Okay, yeah, that starts to make up for it. But it’s only a _start_ , Big Tuna.”

 _I’m going to miss you, too, I love you_ , is what a good guardian would have said. Bruce swallowed the tight regret that that man wasn’t him, and might never be, because there was a wave of paralyzing fear that stilled his tongue surer than any drug when he even thought the words.

Instead, he leaned forward and kissed the top of Dick’s head.

“Have a good time, chum. Be safe. Watch your six. If something goes wrong, call me. If it’s an emergency, yell for Clark.”

“I got it,” Dick said, with that beaming grin. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head ‘bout nothin’.”

“On second thought, don’t yell for Clark,” Bruce muttered into the fridge, shelving the milk and syrup.

“What was that, B?” Dick asked, around a gulp.

Bruce turned and the glass of chocolate milk was drained, and Dick had a fat brown mustache sheen above his lip.

“Brat,” Bruce said, ruffling Dick’s hair as he went by. Dick sprang onto his back and held on like a monkey.

“Is Alfred coming to drop me off?” Dick asked, his breath warm on Bruce’s ear.

“No,” Bruce said. “You ought to go tell him goodbye.”

“Good,” Dick said, sliding down. He stopped before taking off the other direction. “Then we can go _really_ fast. Vroom, vroom, motherfu—”

_“Richard.”_

_“Bruce_. I was gonna say ‘motherfudgesicle,’ but _you_ say the other one.”

“When have I ever said that in front of you.” Bruce tilted his chin up toward the ceiling so Dick couldn’t see the smile that had gotten out of him. He sighed, deeply, to emphasize his feigned exasperation.

“Not in front of me,” Dick said. “On the comms. I was listenin’ when you thought I was asleep.”

“I’ve heard that stalking isn’t polite,” Bruce said.

“B, gotta be honest here, your entire life is kind of in the category of a reasonable threat. I’m just doing my job as Robin.”

“You let Alfred be your off-hours backup from now on,” Bruce warned sternly, looking down at Dick. “If you’re supposed to be in bed, it’s because you need it, or aren’t ready for whatever I’m dealing with. Do you understand?”

Dick’s shoulders slumped, and he hopped from one foot to the other while staring at the floor. Bruce wanted to scoop him up and hug him, tickle him until he squealed, and then hug him again until Dick went limp in the embrace the way he did when Bruce outlasted his near-boundless energy. Instead, he waited.

“Yessir,” Dick mumbled, with his own sigh. “I just worry about you, B.”

“It’s my job to worry about you, Dickie,” Bruce said gently. “You don’t need to worry about me. Not when I can do this.”

Dick was as fast and smart as a whip, but Bruce could move like lightning when he wanted, and Dick shouted while stumbling back just as Bruce snatched him off his feet. He didn’t stand a chance.

His ear-splitting laughter filled the hall as Bruce held him upside down and tickled him, until Dick was wheezing noiselessly. Fingers scrabbled uselessly at Bruce’s sides but got no reaction from Bruce, not even a huff. Bruce flipped him right side up and Dick slumped bonelessly in Bruce’s arms, his head tipped against Bruce’s collarbone while he panted, “Not _fair_.”

“Absolutely fair. I have a handicap. It’s called old age. Ask Alfred.”

“I love you, too,” Dick said, and Bruce’s entire chest squeezed in a warm vice like he was the one who had been ruthlessly tickled. He didn’t deserve this, this impossibly sunny little boy and best friend, or Dick’s easy and gracious understanding, but he was grateful all the same. Sometimes, it made his knees weak, thinking about a time before he had it, because it seemed like such a cruel and impossible thing that his life had existed somehow before Dick, without Dick.

He hoped he was a fraction as good to Dick as Dick was in every waking moment to him.

“We’re gonna be late,” Dick said, wriggling.

“No, we won’t be,” Bruce promised. “We’re going to go fast.”

* * *

_It’s only two nights,_ Bruce reminded himself every five minutes after dropping Dick off at the school where he piled onto a sleek gray charter bus with two dozen classmates. It was his mantra through the day, through a night of patrol, through breakfast.

Dick called twice to check in, once before bed and then again before they left the hotel at eight the next morning. The second call, Bruce answered in bed, half-awake after a poor night of sleep, and listened to Dick babble about the field trip plans at a hundred miles a minute. He talked faster than Bruce would drive with him on Bristol backroads.

The MOMA, the Bronx Zoo, a play on Broadway. Alfred would no doubt hear twice as much about the musical and enjoy it more than Bruce would, but Bruce wondered how in the world they were fitting so much into one day. He watched the clock after Dick hung up, feeling like it was grains of sticky sand on his end in Gotham while it soared for Dick in New York.

“It’s only one more night,” Alfred reminded him, with just the barest hint of amusement, when he found Bruce staring out a window after dinner. “Certainly, the Batman has the fortitude to last…”

He trailed off, and stepped closer, setting aside the tray he’d been carrying.

“Goodness gracious,” he said, softly. “Are you truly that upset?”

Bruce didn’t know what, specifically, had given him away— his unchanging expression? His complete lack of movement? The fact that he was barely breathing, trying to desperately clamp down the irrational wave of paranoia and panic?

He knew Dick was fine.

Except, he didn’t know Dick was fine. Dick could be the furthest thing from fine and he might not know until it was too late.

With a hard swallow, he waited for Alfred to tell him how foolish he was being.

“I know I’m…I’m…it’s not…” he said, choking on the words. He couldn’t get in enough air.

“I hardly need remind you that he is extremely capable, even in unfortunate circumstances,” Alfred said gently, without a trace of scolding or derision.

Bruce closed his eyes and forced himself to at least nod in acknowledgement, so he wouldn’t be rude on top of everything else.

“My dear boy,” Alfred said, so quietly and in such a strange tone that Bruce almost started crying, right there in front of the window staring into the rain. “Come and sit down for a moment, Master Bruce. I’ll sit with you and have some tea, hm?”

With effort, Bruce tore himself away from the drenched landscape and sat down in one of the worn couches. The den felt hollow without Dick, and that fear surged again, that the world was hollow without Dick and would be forever, after whatever terrible thing had happened, was happening right now, and tearing Dick’s bright little soul out of existence. Bruce nearly stood right back up, ready to take the jet to New York, and it was only Alfred sitting next to him that kept him still as stone.

A thin, warm hand pressed against his knee.

“Breathe, Master Bruce,” Alfred said, through the thick cloud of cotton Bruce was wrapped in. “There you go, sir. In and out, just like that. You’re quite well, and so is your boy.”

“He’s…” Bruce tried to protest, _not mine, not anyone’s, nobody could possess him or own him, the best people he had are gone, I’m just the man who tucks him in at night_ and he couldn’t get the words out.

“He is,” Alfred said firmly. “If we hear word otherwise, then we may treat it as such. Another breath, Bruce.”

Bruce rubbed his face with both hands. “I’m sorry. I know I’m being stupid,” he said, when he’d taken deep and slow breaths in and out for a minute or so.

“No,” Alfred said kindly. “No, my boy, I quite understand.”

 _My boy, my boy, my boy,_ Bruce thought. _He’s my boy._

He looked at Alfred and whatever Alfred saw in his face made Alfred’s mouth twist into something sad, and fond. Alfred let go of his knee to take up one of Bruce’s hands and press a kiss to the knuckles before standing.

“I’ll make tea,” Alfred said. “It’s a hard thing, to be the one waiting. You ought not feel silly about that, I dare say. He is a precious child.”

“Yeah,” Bruce said, slouching down on the couch. “He really is, Al, he’s…”

“I know,” Alfred said. Though he said he was going to make tea, he still hadn’t moved away. He patted Bruce’s cheek consolingly and said, “I had one of those myself, until he grew. I still think he rather is, even if he doesn’t agree.”

“If you’re trying to convince me to not go get him before I miss any more time, you’re not helping,” Bruce muttered grumpily, tipping sideways and curling up on the couch.

Alfred chuckled leaving the room and Bruce took a deep lungful of air, and then another, and another.

* * *

The phone didn’t ring until nearly midnight. Bruce went on patrol, with strict instructions for Alfred to patch him in the second Dick called. Tea had helped, and part of the evening talking to Alfred. He realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an evening alone with Alfred that wasn’t in the small hours of the night when Dick was asleep. It chased some of the ache away, and kept that paranoia at bay. He waited until nearly ten, until Alfred reminded him musicals frequently ran long.

When Alfred did raise him on the comm, Bruce was perched on the edge of the squat Busiek Bail building watching two drug dealers— kids who couldn’t have been older than sixteen— argue about the Knights. They were low-level slingers and he was watching for their re-up from a lieutenant, to follow him next.

“Sir,” Alfred said, into his ear, and Bruce was immediately on alert. The tone was grave.

“What’s wrong?” Bruce demanded, slipping back into the deeper shadows.

“It’s Robin, sir. He’s on the line. I think it best if he explains, but I have been assured he is physically well and safe.”

Some dread that had stolen Bruce’s heart bottomed out then, and he nearly sat down on the spot, on the pea gravel around the ancient, bulky A/C unit.

He knew the line was connected because there was a deep and miserable sniff.

“Chum,” Bruce said quickly.

“Can you,” Dick said, and he could hear him struggling to control himself. “Can you come…can you get me, B, can you just come get me, I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_. I tried five times already to go back and I can’t, I don’t want to…I don’t…”

“Slow down, kiddo,” Bruce said, feeling cracked in half by the helpless crying on the other end. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Are you alright? What happened?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Dick wailed miserably, sounding anything but. “I’m sorry, B, I’m really sorry.”

“Robin. Report,” Bruce said, more sharply than he wanted. New York felt a world away, too far if anything was dangerous or mid-crisis.

“We got,” Dick sniffed, “We got rained out of the zoo trip.”

Bruce waited.

“I didn’t know, B, I didn’t know about the rain plan, they let the other kids vote and I didn’t...I thought I’d be okay, I didn’t want to be...to be...”

“Chum. Long breath in, like you’re going to swim underwater. Let it out slow,” Bruce said gently.

He listened, and then started moving toward the car while Dick struggled and calmed himself. He should have already been there, he should call Clark, he should be faster, he should have known that something was—

Dick’s voice was tiny. “They took us to Cirque du Soleil.”

 _Fuck, fuck, goddammit fucking fuck_ , Bruce thought fiercely, already planning exactly how he was going to make a field trip coordinator cry at work.

“Chum, you’re okay. I’m on my way. Can you wait in your room for me?”

“Can I wait in the hall?” Dick begged. “I’ll be careful. I’m in the hall now, and if I go back in I’ll wake the others up and they’ll want to ask and I…I can’t…I can’t…”

“Shhh,” Bruce said. “It’s alright. This is what you’re going to do. You’re going to go get Mr. S, and you’re going to tell him I’m on my way, and that he needs to wait with you in the lobby. Do you understand? Not your room, not the hall alone—”

“But there are _people_ down there,” Dick pleaded, with another small sob. “Why?”

“I need you to follow my orders and I will be there as soon as I can,” Bruce said. The roof of the Batmobile hissed shut and he turned the engine. “I’m sorry, kiddo, but I need you to listen right now. I know it fucking sucks.”

“It does fucking suck,” Dick complained tearfully, sounding much younger than eleven. “What if he sends me back to bed?”

“You ask politely, and explain, and if he doesn’t listen you tell him that Bruce Wayne will have his goddamn job if he doesn’t do what I said.”

_“B.”_

“He’s a good teacher, and he’ll listen, or you wouldn’t be there with him. Do you understand? The lobby. For me, Dickie, promise. I’ll come and we’ll go anywhere you want.”

“Okay,” Dick said. “Okay. I’m sorry. Can you go fast?”

“The fastest,” Bruce said. “Do you want me to send Clark?”

“No,” Dick mumbled. Bruce could hear a yawn. “It’s not that…it’s not that kind of thing. I just want you.”

“You have me,” Bruce said. “Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

“No,” Dick said. “No, I’ll get Mr. S and…and…”

Bruce nudged the needle close to one hundred as he tore across the Sprang Bridge and listened to Dick break down into desperate sobs all over again.

“Shh,” he said, grateful he could grip the wheel to keep himself from smashing a window in frustration. “It’s going to be okay.”

“I keep seeing it,” Dick said, through gasps. “I don’t even have to close my eyes. B, how do I make it stop, I just want it to stop. I don’t want to see it anymore.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Bruce said. He ripped the cowl off, so tears didn’t cloud the lenses. “Tell me what the hall looks like instead. What color is the carpet?”

“It’s green,” Dick said. “Dark green like a pine tree.”

“Good. What’s it smell like?”

“You want me to smell the carpet?” Dick asked, his sob equal parts broken and laughing. “B. It smells like cleaner. And shoes. And uh, smoke. Old smoke.”

“Good. The walls?”

Bruce was in another car, speeding toward New York with a travel mug of coffee Alfred had handed off to him, before Dick calmed enough that Bruce let him hang up. He kept the comm he had pried out of the cowl in his hand until a full twenty minutes after the line went dead.

The trip from the Manor drive to the hotel in the Upper East End took over an hour, even speeding. He dodged speed traps with the radar scanner mounted beneath the dash, but there were sections where he couldn’t outrun the traffic. He spent every minute he was going less than forty drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and so tense it built a headache that stretched from the back of his skull down into his shoulders.

The brakes squealed when he pulled into the small bay reserved for guest registration and he left the keys in the ignition and blew past the valet with a rushed, “I don’t care where you put it, I’ll tip well,” on his way by. Whatever Alfred would say to the lack of courtesy was a thin candle compared to his own self-reproach, but for once he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Dick was in the lobby, sitting on a pale apricot bench, his eyes rimmed red and his arms folded around his legs. A teacher with thin wire glasses and a rounded paunch and kind, tired eyes was sitting beside him.

“Dickie,” Bruce said, taking the three steps in one stride, and Dick’s head snapped up and then he was flying off the bench and into Bruce’s arms. He buried his face against Bruce’s neck, his grip like steel while he clung. He was crying again, but silently, into the collar of Bruce’s silky tee. He hadn’t bothered to change out of the baselayer except to throw on a pair of sweats while jogging up the stairs. Dick was still in his pajamas, a fleece pair of Superman pants and a matching tee that crumpled under Bruce’s hand splayed across his back, rubbing circles over his narrow shoulder blades.

The teacher stood, hands in the pockets of his slacks, and made an apologetic face at Bruce from behind Dick.

“I’m very sorry, Mr. Wayne. None of us thought he’d react—”

“I’m taking him home,” Bruce said, not sure he had the patience to hear any well-meaning excuses and still be civil.

“Of course. I’ll take care of the necessary waivers tomorrow. It won’t be a problem. Would you like me to get Mr. Grayson’s things?”

“Dick? Need anything right now?” Bruce asked. There was a wordless little shake of Dick’s head tight against his throat. Bruce directed his gaze at the teacher again, reminding himself on a loop to tamp down the lecturing tone and save it for later, when Dick was out of earshot, when the right people were in the room to be yelled at. “No. Just bring it all on the bus tomorrow.”

“It’s all packed,” Dick whispered. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

“It’s alright,” Bruce said, maneuvering to offer his hand. “Thank you for sitting with him, Mr. Salvatore.”

The teacher shook it. “You’re very welcome. It was the least I could do. Have a safe drive. Again, I’m sorry. If he’s feeling better in the morning, he’s welcome to join us for the day.”

“Don’t count on us,” Bruce warned, and then he squeezed Dick in a closer hug and whispered, “Let’s get the hell outta dodge, kiddo, huh?”

“Please,” Dick mumbled back.

Bruce stood on the sidewalk, holding Dick in the chilled spring air with just the mist aftermath of heavy rain blowing through the street, and waited for the startled and bewildered valet to retrieve the car he had just finished parking.

“I should have gotten your jacket,” Bruce said, rubbing one of Dick’s bare arms when he noticed the goosebumps rising.

“I’m okay,” Dick said, not moving even an inch away. He was pressed against Bruce as tightly as he could until Bruce was opening the passenger door and tucking him in. He buckled him in and then minutes later they were on the road, heading out of the city. Dick was curled up in the seat, staring out the window, until the neon lights were cut off by the tunnel. He scooted toward Bruce until he could lay his head on Bruce’s thigh.

Bruce put a hand on his head and stroked his hair, thumbing the curl around Dick’s ear to tuck it back, over and over. “Home, Dick? Or do you want to go somewhere?”

“Like where?” Dick asked.

“Anywhere you wanted to go,” Bruce said.

“I’m in my pajamas,” Dick said.

“There are these places, maybe you’ve heard of them, called stores. They sell things.”

“Bruce,” Dick laughed, shoving at the leg his head was resting on. He grew still and quiet again. “I dunno. Anywhere sounds nice. Can we just…can we drive for a while? I like going with you.”

“Sure, chum,” Bruce said. “We’ll drive. Do you want to listen to anything?”

“No,” Dick said. “Not really.”

“Hmm,” Bruce hummed in agreement and Dick took a breath, like he was about to say something, and then was silent. Bruce jostled his leg just slightly. “Chum?”

“It’s just,” Dick said, like he was mid-argument with someone. “I’m being a baby. I don’t need…it’s just.”

“Dick. It’s alright,” Bruce said.

“My mom used to sing,” Dick said, in a very small voice, muffled by the way he pressed his face into Bruce’s leg. “You sing, sometimes, when I’m sick. Or if you think I’m almost asleep already. Or that time we fought Scarecrow, after, when the toxin was…when I didn’t feel good.”

“Does it bother you,” Bruce asked, keeping his tone neutral, so Dick wouldn’t feel like he had to lie.

Dick was quiet for another long minute. “No. I, I like it. Do you think, I mean, you don’t have to, but if you…”

“Shh,” Bruce said. “It’s alright. _Hey Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, I’m not sleepy and there ain’t no place I’m going to…”_

There were soft little snores filling the car before the end of the song, and Bruce sang it one more time before just driving. He took the exchange away from Gotham when he hit it, and drove deeper and deeper into the night. He could stay awake all night if he needed, but exhaustion was dragging at his eyelids and beginning to take actual effort to fight, in the car cab where he’d left the air warm so Dick wouldn’t be cold.

Then, with a jolt and a cry, Dick startled awake and sat bolt upright in the seat. Bruce stopped squinting ahead at the blue lodgings sign on the interstate, looking for a hotel, and glanced at him. He tapped the brake in case he needed to pull over.

Dick panted in his seat for a moment, staring ahead like he wasn’t seeing the glovebox or the road outside the windshield, with salt tracks cutting down his cheeks. Light from the road lamps glinted off the wet trails and then he huddled up against Bruce again.

“Can we stop soon,” Dick asked.

“Mhmm,” Bruce said, tucking an arm around Dick to hold him close. “Help me watch for signs. First place you see.”

“‘kay,” Dick murmured, craning his head a little to see the signage without peeling himself away from Bruce.

Bruce spotted the Hampton Inn sign the second before Dick said, “There’s one.”

“Good work, chum. That’s our next stop, unless you’re hungry.”

“I kinda didn’t really eat dinner,” Dick said. “The whole show’s a blur. Alfred’s gonna be disappointed.”

“Alfred won’t be disappointed, not in this situation,” Bruce assured him, kicking himself for not checking in on him earlier. All those hours Dick was feeling miserable. “Food and then hotel, then. See a McDonalds?”

“Can I get a shake?” Dick asked. “There’s one. It says, uh, half a mile to the right.”

“That means it’s right next to the hotel. How’d you find the perfect exit on the first try?”

“Just lucky, I guess,” Dick said, but there was a downturn in his slight cheer that caught Bruce’s sharp attention. Bruce rubbed his arm.

“I’m lucky. I have a good navigator.”

Dick’s smile was wavering but real.

He rode piggyback on Bruce’s back when they checked into the hotel, a sack of food in each hand. Bruce juggled his wallet and a drink carrier and the bemused look of the overnight clerk, until Dick offered her a French fry, which she declined but seemed to relax after.

“Is Alfred gonna yell at you that we stayed in a normal hotel?” Dick asked, when Bruce unlocked the door with the keycard. It beeped and lit up green and he tugged open the heavy door.

“A normal hotel?”

“Yeah, one that doesn’t have valets and fancy stuff.”

“What Alfred doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I’ve slept in far worse places. If he looks upset when he finds out, I’m telling him you made me.”

“I don’t think he believes that,” Dick observed, sliding down Bruce’s back to land on the plush carpet. “He knows how you are.”

“How am I, exactly,” Bruce asked. He tore paper off the straws and stuck them into the shakes.

“Stubborn,” Dick said. “I can’t really force you to do anything, you know. I’m not that big. Can we eat on the bed?”

“Where else would we eat?” Bruce asked, and Dick bounced onto one of the two beds in the room and sat cross legged with a sack of food in front of him. He pulled out a burger and tore into the sandwich the second the paper was unwrapped. Bruce flopped onto the other bed, face down, and closed his eyes for a second.

He blinked and Dick was sitting on the bed with him, with a sleeve of fries.

“If you’re not going to eat, then I should probably eat your cheeseburger for you,” Dick said, poking Bruce’s cheek with a fry. “It’s gonna go bad.”

“You mean your second cheeseburger, that I got for you.”

“What are you going to eat?” Dick frowned. He unwrapped the second cheeseburger, after shaking fry salt into his mouth from the red sleeve.

“Pillow,” Bruce said.

The next thing he knew, Dick was elbowing him fiercely in the stomach and grumbling at him. “You pinned all the covers down. You’re the size of Blue. Roll over some.”

“The size of what,” Bruce mumbled sleepily.

“Paul Bunyan’s ox, you know Paul Bunyan’s ox, I just read that story for school and told you all about it.”

Bruce had a vague recollection that would have been clearer if he hadn’t been so close to sleeping again. He rolled a bit and lifted his arm, and Dick snuggled down beneath covers and up against him.

“Thanks for coming to get me, B,” Dick said, when he was tucked in by blanket and arm alike.

“Always, chum,” Bruce said, pressing a kiss to Dick’s brow. “I’ll come every time you call. Do you want to talk? Are you still having trouble?”

“No,” Dick mumbled. “Maybe tomorrow. M’tired.”

“Goodnight, Dickie,” Bruce murmured.

“‘Night, B. If I…if it’s…can I wake you up if…”

“Of course,” Bruce said. “Go to sleep. I’m right here.”

Dick slept.


End file.
